


The Power of the Imagination

by angelicwinchesters



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Big Brother Dean, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Gen, Hallucifer, Hallucifer!Sam, Hallucinating Sam Winchester, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Self-Harm, Worried Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-06-23 22:44:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15616650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelicwinchesters/pseuds/angelicwinchesters
Summary: WARNING: THIS DOES HAVE ELEMENTS OF SELF-HARMIt's pretty mild but it is there.This takes place sometime in early season 7. Sam is using the scar on his left hand to keep his hallucinations at bay.But the visions seem to be getting stronger and harder to get rid of.How can Sam keep them away?





	1. Chapter 1

Every now and then, he’s back there. Back to flames and chains and metal bars and meat hooks. His mind’s eye fills with flashes of crimson and darkness. A kaleidoscope of over a century’s worth of memories crashes into him like a tidal wave and he starts to drown in the stench of it and the things he heard – oh god, the screams. Whether they all belonged to him or not, he can’t tell. 

His mind tells him it’s not real; this is all just a memory. He’s not there anymore, he’s back on earth. With Dean. Just when he’s told himself that enough times to make his racing heart slow slightly, he feels him. His breath on his neck. His laughter in his ear. His voice, his touch. He panics, his breath quickens and his eyes dart around frantically. Every attempt at calming himself is interrupted by one terrible memory after another. No, no, no…wait. He can fix this, he remembers how. He lifts his scarred left hand, palm facing up. He presses into the stitches decorating his palm with the thumb on his right hand, gently at first but with increasing force when the world around him finally starts to fade away. Relief starts to replace the fear. The harsh light of the flames dissolves into the glow of a dim lamp, and the screams slowly soften into one voice. A very familiar voice. Although the voice itself is thick with worry, Sam feels as though it’s grounding him, summoning him back to reality. 

“Sammy! Come on, snap out of it!”

He can see the owner of the voice now. In fact, he can see everything: the two unmade beds with the old duffle bags sitting open at the foot of them; the bedside table upon which the lamp sat; the small kitchenette with beer bottles placed on top of the counter. He’s on the floor, sitting upright with one leg stretched out in front of him while the other is folded, his knee raised to his chest. His nostrils fill with that damp smell of crappy motel rooms that the brothers were certainly no strangers to. He blinks hard and shifts his gaze to the face in front of him, finding two green eyes looking back at him. 

“Hey, you with me? You alright?” Dean’s face is etched with alarm as he crouches before him.

Sam manages a nod. He can feel everything too now. He acknowledges the presence of Dean’s hands; one on his shoulder, the other on his raised knee. Feeling the discomfort of the hard wall against his back, he realises he was in the far left corner of the motel room. This hallucination had been a powerful one; powerful enough for him to momentarily forget the hand-scar trick – and for him to somehow end up cowering in the corner on the floor. Presently, Dean tucks a hand around Sam’s arm and helps him to a stand. Sam looks down at his hands, half-expecting them to be covered in burns. Instead, they simply have the usual scrapes and scratches on them from various hunts, old and recent. And, of course, the stitches on his left palm. 

Sam remembers: they had been unpacking after arriving to the motel that evening. There was supposed to be a case in town – possibly a witch. He remembers Dean had been saying something about him visiting the morgue tomorrow to check out the body while Sam talks to the victim’s family and then… nothing. Sam guesses that was when the hallucination hit.

“Dude, what the hell? I thought you said you had this thing under control now.” Dean gestures to Sam’s hand. There’s a sharpness in his tone but Sam knew it was worry rather than anger. 

“I did. I mean, I do,” Sam replies in a quiet voice, not quite meeting Dean’s eyes. “This time was stronger than the last ones…more vivid.” 

Dean’s voice rises in pitch slightly as he says, “Well, what does that mean? Is it getting worse?”

Yes, Sam thinks.

“Maybe, I don’t know,” he resorts as he tries to keep the worry off his own face. “But Dean, it’s fine, the hand-scar thing still worked. I can still tell what’s real.” He decides to leave out the part about temporarily forgetting all that.  
Sam is looking straight at Dean now. His brother’s eyes are slightly widened, and his brows are knitted together in concern. He looks at him like that for a long moment. Sam can almost see the cogs turning in his head, searching for a solution to his little brother’s problem. They both knew there wasn’t one.

“Yeah, well…” Dean trails off and makes his way back to the duffle on his bed to continue unpacking. When he gets there, he turns around to look at Sam again. “Let’s hope it stays that way. You gotta swear though, you tell me if it gets any worse and I mean the second it does.”

Sam fixes him with a tired look. “Why, Dean? What can you do?”

“I can do something!” Dean’s voice has risen again, louder this time.

Sam knows better than to argue about things like this with Dean so he shuffles over to his own bag to resume his unpacking. Without turning around, Dean mumbles, “And if you think I’m letting you out of my sight while we’re here, you’re dead wrong. Tomorrow, we’re going to the morgue together.”

They are both quiet for the rest of the evening.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THIS DOES HAVE ELEMENTS OF SELF-HARM  
> It's pretty mild but it is there.  
> This takes place sometime in early season 7. Sam is using the scar on his left hand to keep his hallucinations at bay.  
> But the visions seem to be getting stronger and harder to get rid of.  
> How can Sam keep them away?

Over the next month or so, Sam realised Dean hadn’t been kidding; Dean had stuck to Sam like glue on that hunt – and every hunt since. Every time they found a new case to investigate, Dean would ask Sam whether he was up to hunting or if he needed a break. It got annoying after a while.

Sam continued to see Lucifer, doing the usual: taunting him, making him see things, reminding him of things and places he’d rather forget. But the hand-scar continued to work and nothing had been as vivid as that other hallucination. Sam supposed he should be glad, but he couldn’t help but feel as though he was just waiting for it to happen again. And he knew Dean was too. Every once in a while, Sam would feel Dean’s eyes on him when he wasn’t looking. Although he couldn’t see Dean’s face, he could imagine it – looking at him like he was a china doll.

During the sleepless nights where Sam was kept awake either by Lucifer or recollections of his time in the Cage, he would contemplate his situation, try to imagine a life like this. How could he keep this up? Every day, chasing away the same memories, constantly switching between reality and what was haunting him. It was exhausting. And fucking painful. Having to look at the face of the person who tortured him, tormented him day after day. Sure, he could send him away but never for very long. It was like he was trapped in his own mind, caught between what he knew was real and what he desperately wanted to forget.

In any case, he hated Dean having to live like this. Constantly on high alert, having to be ready to sort out his kid brother at a moment’s notice. Sam felt like a weight on his brother’s shoulders and that was the last thing he wanted to be.

So, Sam kept quiet – never talked about Lucifer or his hallucinations unless he was directly asked by Dean. Even then he would take every opportunity to change the subject. He was determined to deal with this by himself. It was his own problem and his own fault anyway, Sam reckoned.

It was four or five weeks after that particularly strong hallucination that Sam and Dean returned to their motel room at around 3am, the stench of werewolf blood hot on their heels. Sam was ready to collapse and drift into a deep sleep there and then, but the usual post-hunt routine had to be followed. Both the brothers slipped off their jackets, revealing ripped, blood-stained t-shirts. In Sam’s case, there was a series of gashes around his left shoulder where claws had made their mark, while Dean was bleeding from a nasty scratch on his waist from when the werewolf had caused him to lose his grip on the silver knife. The next 30 minutes or so involved a lot of wincing, stitching and cleaning of each other’s wounds. But, of course, this was their normal. Just another Tuesday night for the Winchesters.

On days like this, when the two of them were knee-deep in a hunt, there wasn’t much time to think about everything else, which was fine by Sam. He was glad of having not seen Lucifer much today.

Sam rolled his eyes when Dean practically sprinted (or as close to a sprint as his injuries would allow) to the bathroom following their patch-up session, shouting something over his shoulder about calling dibs on the first shower. With a small smile to himself, Sam lay back on the motel bed, his joints favouring the comfort despite the scratchiness of the sheets. The sound of running water from the bathroom was somewhat soothing and Sam found himself closing his eyes and sinking further into the mattress. His thoughts had just started to drift when…

_“Sammy…”_

Immediately, he was on high alert, sitting bolt upright and scanning the room. His frantic search rested on an outline sitting on an armchair in the opposite corner of the room. Due to the low light, Sam was only able to make out a faint silhouette. But that was all he needed. The figure was sitting back, legs crossed. One elbow was resting on the arm of the chair, his chin being cradled in his hand. Although his face couldn’t be made out, Sam could imagine the sickening smile drawn across it.

Not another word was said by either one of them before Sam felt a sharp pain in his left shoulder. Gasping, he tore his gaze from the shadowy figure to where he had been injured previously that night. Through the rips in his t-shirt, Sam saw fresh blood oozing from the gashes. The warm liquid trickled down his chest, soaking through the fabric of his shirt even more. The stitches had burst and now the wounds were gaping, wider than they had been before. Sam took deep breaths as he tried to work through the pain.

“Not real, not real, not real…you’re fine, you’re okay.” Sam repeated these words over and over even as the pain spread throughout his whole body, setting every nerve on fire. It took everything in him not to cry out. His jaw started to ache from being clenched so tightly. Sam reached down to grab his left hand with his right. Beads of sweat started to form on his brow. His right thumb pressed down into his scar, feeling the roughness of the stitches underneath it. He shifted his gaze to corner of the room. The figure was still sitting there. Sam pressed harder. The figure’s head tilted to the side.

_“What’s the matter? Your little loophole not working anymore?”_

Sam was pressing with all his strength now. He held on for what seemed like hours before releasing his grip with a gasp. Bending over, he scowled across at the silhouette in the corner. The pain was unreal now. It felt as though poison was making its way through every fibre in him. Screwing his eyes shut made him start to see colours and flashes of light. Who knew fake pain could feel so real?

_“The power of the imagination, Sammy. Now, open up your eyes. I’ve got a surprise for you.”_

Feeling like a stubborn child, Sam shook his head defiantly and his eyes remained closed. Sweat was running down his face like tears now.  
A sudden, loud crash came from his right. The bathroom.  
Dean.  
Sam knew better than to fall for these old tricks but he couldn’t help himself. Slowly, he opened his eyes just enough to catch a glance at the bathroom door. A river of blood flooded out from underneath. In the midst of the blood roaring in his ears, Sam swears he could hear the voice of his brother, weak and faint:

“Sammy…help me…”

Sam couldn’t take it. He knew this wasn’t real but that wasn’t enough anymore. He just wanted it all to stop. He rose to his feet as steadily as he could and clambered to the end of the bed, where his duffle bag was. Sam collapsed beside it as another wave of pain took over his body. Hands shaking, he fumbled, grasped at the bag and eventually found the zip to open it. As he foraged around in the bag with his hands, his eyes drifted over to the bathroom door again. There was more blood and it was making its way all the way across the room to where he lay on the ground. Finally, he felt his hand close around the item he had been looking for. Still quivering, he took the knife in his right hand and slowly drew the blade across his left, just above his scar.

He almost laughed with relief when the pain of it hit him. It wasn’t as severe as the false throbbing he was feeling all over, but it was fresh. It felt real. He looked across the room at the blood and the shadow in the corner. They flickered. Only for a moment, but they flickered. And for a moment, the agony subsided within him. A pained smile made its way across his face, quickly replaced by a grimace as Sam sliced open his hand again just above the first cut. He pressed down further as he did so. The third time, he pushed the blade in as hard as he could. The hurt it brought was so gloriously real. And when he looked up, it was all gone. The figure. The pool of blood. Thankfully, the agony too. Glancing down at his shoulder, he saw that the stitches Dean had sewn were perfectly intact. He lay his head back on the floor, chest heaving. It was like it had all been a dream.

He lay there for a few more seconds before the worry kicked in. He sat up slowly, still catching his breath, and looked around the room but saw no sign of Dean. His gaze looked to the light that spilled out from underneath the bathroom door. To Sam’s relief, he could make out shadows from inside, moving around. He wondered how long that whole hallucination had lasted. It had felt like hours to him, but if Dean had been in the shower that whole time, it can’t have been more than several minutes…Then again, Dean did take very long showers.

Sam’s attention was quickly drawn away from the bathroom door to his stinging left hand. Blood was sliding down his wrists and dripping onto the carpet. The cuts had been deep. The pain was also starting to set in more and more. In a flash, Sam found a bandage from the first aid kit in his duffle and was dressing his wound. He really needed to clean it first but that would take too long and Dean would be out any second now. He couldn’t see this. The bandaging was messy, but it would have to do. With his good hand, Sam grabbed his duffle and strategically placed it down on the carpet, covering the blood stain nicely. Finally, he tossed the bloody knife into the bag itself. Again, he should really clean it but reckoned he would figure out a way to do that when Dean wasn’t here.

It was then, and only then, that Sam sat down on the bed and processed what had just happened. The hand-scar hadn’t worked - at all. He had had to make fresh wounds. In the back of Sam’s mind, he knew he should tell Dean. Dean had asked him to be honest with him about this. But Sam didn’t want to give him yet another reason to worry about him more than he already was. He already felt like enough of a burden to his older brother as it was. So, Sam chose to convince himself that he could handle this alone. It’s not like there’s much anyone can do to help, anyway.

He had never felt actual pain in a hallucination before, and certainly not that strongly. That was new. If Sam hadn’t been so scared, he might have marvelled at the strength of these visions. Lucifer’s words echoed in Sam’s mind just as the bathroom door creaked open:

_“The power of the imagination, Sammy.”_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THIS DOES HAVE ELEMENTS OF SELF-HARM  
> It's pretty mild but it is there.
> 
> This takes place sometime in early season 7. Sam is using the scar on his left hand to keep his hallucinations at bay.  
> But the visions seem to be getting stronger and harder to get rid of.
> 
> How can Sam keep them away? And how long can he keep secrets from Dean?

The misty light of early morning seeped through the thin curtains of the Winchesters' motel room. The brothers were, once again, packing up and getting ready to leave town after finishing up the werewolf hunt late last night. They were currently running on about two hours of sleep – it was always best to leave town ASAP after a hunt, to avoid questions - so Sam figured the drive wouldn’t be very long before they had to stop again and crash at yet another motel, or maybe they’d find some abandoned cabin or something.

Even within the short time between getting back to the motel last night and getting up this morning, Sam barely got any sleep. After that hallucination, he was even more exhausted than he had been already but too terrified to close his eyes. So in between dozing off for a few minutes at a time, Sam spent most of the two hours listening to Dean’s snoring.

Because of this, his movements the next morning were slow and sluggish; his thinking felt distracted from whatever he was trying to focus on, even if there was nothing distracting him. This feeling was nothing new to either of the brothers; they had stayed up for 24 hours or more plenty of times before.

So, when Dean asked Sam to pass him his Fed suit jacket that was draped over a chair to Sam’s right, he wasn’t surprised when he was handed the wrong thing. What did surprise him, however, was the fact that Sam’s hand that was passing him his phone instead of his jacket was bandaged. And messily too.

Dean frowned. He had taken the bandage off Sam’s cut weeks ago, when he was satisfied he didn’t need it any more. He tried to cast his mind back to last night and he couldn’t remember noticing it then. But it couldn’t have happened this morning – Sam had been in Dean’s sight the whole time…

At this point, Sam’s hand had been holding Dean’s phone out in front of him for a few moments and Sam was finally noticing that Dean wasn’t taking it from him. “What is it?” he asked but even as he said the words, he noticed the bandage too.

_Damn._

He had meant to try and hide that from Dean, but he was so tired that he hadn’t realised what hand he was handing Dean his phone with.

“What happened to your hand?” Dean questioned, his voice steady but hard. Sam tossed Dean’s phone onto the bed nearest him and hung his head low.

“It uh…the stitches burst open during the hunt last night. Started bleeding again.” It was the best he could come up with right now.

“I didn’t see it bleeding last night.” Dean shifted his stance so he was fully facing Sam. “Or you patching it up, for that matter.”

_Crap._

Sam hadn’t thought about the fact that they had spent a good half an hour tending to their injuries when they got back.

“I-I only noticed it when you were in the shower.” Sam cleared his throat.

That was a tell-tale sign he was lying, and Dean knew that. So, he nodded slowly before advancing towards Sam with an outstretched hand.

“Let me see.”

“No, no!” Sam tried to reduce the tone of panic in his voice as he backed away from his brother. “No, it’s fine, Dean. I…redid the stitches. It’s all good.”

“Okay. I just want to check you did it right, ‘cause, you know, you haven’t exactly got the steady hand of a surgeon,” Dean said, still moving forward slowly. At this point, Sam realised Dean knew he was lying and was wanting to find out the truth himself. Instinctively, Sam put his left arm slightly behind him, further out of Dean’s reach. Backing further away, he knew he was about to reach the wall behind him.

_Shit._

Dean walked the last few steps over to where he was standing and grabbed Sam’s left hand. He began to unravel the untidy bandaging and Sam let him. Even if Sam told him nothing about what happened, when he saw the cuts Dean would be able to work it out. He had probably already guessed this was about Lucifer anyway.

Sam closed his eyes, bracing for Dean to find out what he’d done. Although he didn’t regret doing it, he knew Dean wouldn’t see things his way. Try as he might, Sam’s brother just couldn’t quite understand what it was like for him.

He opened his eyes as Dean peeled the last bit of the dressing off to reveal the four slices in Sam’s hand - one old; three new. Sam cautiously looked up at Dean from underneath his eyelashes. He saw his jaw clench and his eyes examine each of the cuts individually. Then, they shifted up to look at Sam.

“What the hell are these? Don’t say it was an accident. These are deliberate!”

Sam opened his mouth to try and explain but he wasn’t sure where to start – and how to put it into words so as not to worry Dean any more than he already was. Dean seemed to notice Sam’s loss for words, so he asked him a different question. “When are these from, really?"

Sam sighed. “Last night when we got back. While you were taking a shower.” After that, Dean said nothing, obviously waiting for Sam to tell the full story. Sam drew in a long, deep breath before continuing.

“The hand-scar…isn’t working anymore. I tried, it’s just…not enough to keep the visions away. I needed something more.” Sam knew Dean could work out the rest. When he had, Sam saw his brother’s jaw clench tightly again.

“So, what, carving into yourself, that’s your solution?” Sam looked at him with pleading eyes.

“Dean, it worked. Lucifer and the visions disappeared when I did it.” Dean turned his back to Sam, running a hand down his face and closing his eyes. Sam hated seeing his brother like this, especially when it was his fault. This reaction was exactly why he hadn’t told Dean. Dean walked a couple of feet away from Sam before turning back around to face him, his expression stern.

“I thought I told you to tell me the second this started getting worse!”

“How could I, Dean? You’ve already got so much to deal with, between Cas and the Leviathans… you’ve been having a rough go and you shouldn’t have to worry about me as well.”

“I don’t care, you said you’d tell me!” There was a pause before Dean walked back towards Sam and grabbed his injured hand once again. “What the hell were you thinking? This,” he shook Sam’s hand in his grip, as if to wave it in front of him, “is not a solution, okay?”

“Well, I had to do something, Dean!” Sam was surprised by the volume in his own voice. He reeled his sudden frustration in and tried to find the words to continue. When he did, it was slow and shaky.

“I thought…I could deal with it, with…seeing him. I knew it wasn’t real and I thought I could be strong enough. But I was wrong.” His breaths started to quicken slightly as he felt every emotion he’d been feeling and suppressing these past couple of months rise in him all at once. “I can’t…I can’t look at his face, day after day. Because when I do, all I see is everything that happened…down there. Everything he did. And I get so scared.” A lump had formed in his throat and was starting to choke him. Tears were quickly pricking his eyes and blurring his vision. “So, I had to do something, anything to make that go away…at least for a little while.” Dean had let go of Sam’s hand by then, his face softened. The look in his eyes had turned from anger to concern. He kept his gaze locked on his brother, even though Sam wasn’t meeting his eyes.

Sam pushed past Dean and strode over to the bed to sit down. He stared at a spot on the carpet. Why had he said that? Now Dean would think he was even weaker, in need of even more looking after. He could barely admit that stuff to himself, let alone to his brother. Dean would probably start hiding the knives from him now. Sam blinked several times, trying to banish the tears that were threatening to fall. He only looked up from the floor when he noticed Dean moving closer and sitting down on the opposite bed, in front of Sam. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“Sam…” Dean started slowly. His voice was slightly hoarse. He quietly cleared his throat and started again. “Sam, I know we didn’t exactly have the same experience down there. But I do know what that feels like. To feel frightened all the time…to always have it there in the back of your mind, the corner of your eye. To look at a face that terrifies you. I know.”

Sam flitted his gaze up to his older brother. Dean was looking at Sam but there was something else in his eyes, something distant. Sam could guess what was going through his mind. He knew that look too well. It had briefly occurred to him that Dean was probably the only person on the planet he could talk to about all this. Lucky for Sam, he also happened to be the only person he’d want to talk to. Dean blinked and the distance in his eyes faded out.

“But this,” he gestured to Sam’s hands, “is not the way out. Alright, this is only hurting you more, even if it don’t feel like it right now. I mean, right now it’s just a few cuts but what happens if the visions get even stronger? Huh? You gonna start cutting even deeper?” There was a pause before Dean added in a slightly harder voice, “So this…it’s gotta stop.” It was his big brother voice.

Sam was looking down at his hands, fiddling with the bandage covering his signs of weakness. He was unsure of what to say. He wanted to promise Dean he would never do it again. But he wasn’t sure if that would be the truth. Who knows how far he’d go if he was forced to experience that kind of pain, to relive those all-too-real memories again?

Mercifully, he didn’t have time to answer before Dean picked up his phone from the bed. “I’ll give Bobby a call,” he explained, “see if he can find something, or someone, that’ll help you out.” Sam sighed and shifted slightly on the bed.

“You know, Dean, we can’t expect there to _be_ another way.” Dean frowned at him, confused so Sam added, “Maybe this time…this is just how it’s going to be. This is it.” Dean’s frown deepened.

“What, are you saying you don’t _want_ this to stop?”

“No, I do, of course I do. But…” There was another silence as Sam tried to find the words to explain himself. “The bottom line is…I was in hell…for a long time.” It wasn’t the first time Sam had said that out loud but it still left a sting on his tongue, a sour taste in his mouth. He swallowed and carried on. “And that was my choice. Now I have to deal with the consequences of making that choice.”

“Screw the consequences! You faced those damn consequences when you were tortured in a cage for two centuries!” Dean’s voice was raised and gruff but the tone wasn’t anger so much as frustration and alarm. “You know what? Maybe you’re right, maybe there is no other way,” he continued, “But I’ll be damned if we don’t try everything under the sun until we know that for sure and I mean everything. This is already bad, Sam, what happens if it gets any worse? What happens to you?”

Sam didn’t have an answer for that. He took a deep breath and fixed his gaze on his hands again. He looked up again at Dean when he heard him add in a quieter voice,

“I’m not losing you, man...I’m just not.”

With that, Dean stood up from the bed and walked over to the other side of the room to make the call to Bobby. Sam stayed where he was, only half-listening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for all the great feedback I've had so far! I hope you're enjoying the story :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THIS DOES HAVE ELEMENTS OF SELF-HARM  
> It's pretty mild but it is there.  
> This takes place sometime in early season 7. Sam is using the scar on his left hand to keep his hallucinations at bay.  
> But the visions seem to be getting stronger and harder to get rid of.  
> How can Sam keep them away?

Two days.

Two days since Dean had asked Bobby to see if he could dig up anything or anyone that could help Sam. Bobby had said he’d look into it and get back to them.

That had been two days ago.

Dean hadn’t told Bobby everything, but he’d said enough for Bobby to realise that this was serious. So, what the hell was taking him so long? And yeah, Dean knew that Bobby would be doing everything he could to find something, but that didn’t stop Dean from growing more impatient by the second. These past couple of nights he had been losing sleep, afraid that Sam would have another crazy hallucination and hurt himself, or worse. Thankfully, nothing like that had happened yet but for some reason that still didn’t put Dean at ease.

At least it looked like the world was quiet at the moment; no newspapers were reporting any weird deaths or occurrences and nothing they’d heard on the police scanner felt like their kind of thing either. Dean saw this as a blessing; if there had been anything unusual going on, Sam would’ve wanted to go check it out. Not that Dean would’ve let him but at least this way, he didn’t have to argue with his brother. If Sam went on a hunt and started hallucinating in the middle of it all, that could be seriously dangerous.

So, instead, they’d undertaken the drive north to Rufus’ cabin to spend some time frying bigger fish: two solid days of Leviathan research. Dean’s brain felt like it was crammed full, about to explode. And none of the information was of any use. They still had no idea how to kill, maim, trap, lay a finger on, pretty much do anything to any Leviathan. Still, Dean thought, at least Sam was probably loving all this research.

Today had been a good day, Dean reckoned. Recently, Sam had been quiet, reserved, like he was trying to make himself go unnoticed. He had rarely spoken unless directly spoken to and hadn’t complained once about Dean’s music on the way to the cabin. Dean guessed that this had something to do with their conversation two days back. And Dean got it. Once he had told Sam about his Hell, he’d closed up again like a hermit crab retreating into its shell. It frustrated Dean but he knew to just leave it alone, at least for a while.

But today had been a good day. Sam was engaging more. He was striking up conversations and asking questions and making remarks here and there. Dean wasn’t sure what had changed but he was glad of it.

As they sat across from each other at the table in the main room of Rufus’ cabin, Dean poured over the contents of yet another dusty old lore book, occasionally getting distracted by the _click-clacking_ of Sam’s laptop keyboard. Dean was trying his best to absorb the book’s content but failing miserably; he’d been sat at this task for so long, he was reading the sentences but then having to reread them because he hadn’t been paying attention the first time. His brain was crying out for a break.

The wooden chair creaked as he reclined back with resigned sigh.

“I’m tellin’ you, man, there’s nothing.”

“Nothing we’ve found yet,” Sam replied, not averting his focused gaze from his laptop screen.

Dean couldn’t help but feel a trace of satisfaction from that remark; even with everything going on, Sam remained the optimist. Dean’s eyes flitted downwards to his book again, the words still looking like nothing more than a combination of letters.

“Yeah, well, every moment we spend holed up in here, they could be chomping down on some poor bastard,” Dean mumbled, half under his breath. He realised they didn’t have much of an alternative, however. Another few moments passed.

Then the _click-clacking_ stopped.

“No.” Sam’s voice was barely louder than a whisper.

“No what?” Dean queried before looking up at his brother across from him. Sam’s eyes were looking at something a few feet behind Dean and to his right. Dean twisted himself in his seat, drawing out another creak from the chair, to see what could be attracting Sam’s attention. His eyes scanned that corner of the room but saw nothing out of the ordinary; TV, sofa, empty beer bottles…

It was only Dean turned back around and saw the look on Sam’s face again that he realised what was really happening. The hairs on his arms stood up.

Sam’s eyes were somewhere else, not seeing what was truly in front of him. In amongst that distant look, there was an echo of fear, of panic. Dean recognised that look from about five weeks ago. His fists clenched.

“Sam?” No sooner had the word left his mouth than had Sam said that word again.

“No.” Louder this time.

Sam starting to shift in his seat, his breaths quickening slightly. His gaze was still frozen on that corner.

“Sam?” Dean tried again, attempting to catch his brother’s eye.

Suddenly, Sam stood up, nearly knocking his laptop from the table.

“No, stop it!” His voice had risen into almost a shout. Dean rose to his feet too, slowly, trying to maintain a façade of calm. Sam backed away from the table as Dean watched him carefully.

“Sam,” he started once more, “Stay with me, you hear?” He swallowed hard as Sam only backed away further, almost reaching the wall now. Dean couldn’t help but quickly scan the room for any knives or blades. He was relieved when he concluded that there weren’t any left lying around. His eyes snapped back towards Sam as he heard him cry out,

“Please, stop this! Just go away!”

Dean strode over to where Sam was standing and grabbed him by his shoulders. He tried to ignore the horror in Sam’s eyes as he looked right through Dean; tried to push down the thoughts of what Sam could be living through right now.

“It’s not real…you remember that?” He stopped as Sam wriggled and shook himself out of his grip. “Focus on me, I’m what’s real.” He tried to keep his voice steady and soothing, but he felt panic rising in his throat. Sam had told him the scar hadn’t been enough to keep the hallucinations away; what if _he_ wasn’t either? What if nothing was? He couldn’t, wouldn’t let Sam hurt himself again…but what if there was nothing else he could do?

“This isn’t real,” Sam muttered in between fast, shaky breaths. At this, Dean felt a trace of hope flare up within him.

“That’s right, it’s not, but I am. Focus on me.” Dean put his hands on Sam’s shoulders again, planting them firmly this time, and willed himself to look directly into Sam’s eyes. “Sam, focus on me.”

Sam didn’t struggle under Dean’s hold this time, but nevertheless Dean kept his hands placed on his brother’s shoulders. He kept them there as Sam’s breathing began to slow, as the look of terror in his eyes slowly started to fade and they started seeing what was really in front of them. When that happened, Sam finally looked up at Dean, returning his direct stare.

“It’s okay.” Sam’s voice was still breathy, slightly shaky. “I’m okay, they’re gone.”

Dean was slightly alarmed at Sam’s use of ‘they’, but it was overshadowed by relief. Sam was back. And he would ask him about who ‘they’ were later.

Still not fully taking his eyes from him, Dean released his grip from Sam’s shoulders and took a couple of steps back. Sam looked as though he’d just woken from a vivid nightmare. Dean wondered if that’s how it felt to him. He looked tired and overwhelmed and something else that Dean could only read as…ashamed.

Sam was staring down at his fingers which were fondling with the bandage on his left hand. Dean wondered what he was thinking.

“You sure you’re good?” Dean asked, unsure of what to say next.

Sam shot a glance at his brother and nodded, in a way that didn’t really reassure Dean. There was that shame again.

“Sam, this…you know, this was good.”

When Sam narrowed his eyes with confusion, Dean added, “I mean, you’ve come out the other side without having to…you know…” He trailed off as he gestured to Sam’s scarred hand, knowing Sam understood. “I’d call that progress.”

There was a moment of silence as Sam appeared to consider Dean’s words. Then, slowly, he began to nod and although he didn’t look entirely convinced, Dean could’ve sworn he saw a hint of relief in his brother’s face. 

* * *

Later that night, Dean woke to darkness.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the same blackness as when they were closed. He lay on the bed looking up at the ceiling for a minute or so, allowing his eyes to adjust. He wondered whether something had woken him or whether this was just another bout of insomnia.

He listened.

The cabin was silent; this was probably just restlessness.

He craned his neck up and to the right, searching for the time. The glowing green digital numbers on the clock on the bedside table read 3:03. He smiled to himself as he realised he still had a few more hours before he needed to get up or was woken by Sam’s clattering around.

Something was still bothering him though and wouldn’t let him drift off back into his slumber. He shifted his position in the bed, so he could look over and see if Sam was awake.

His heart skipped a beat.

He sat upright.

On Sam’s bed was nothing more than a tangle of sheets and blankets.

Sam was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Nothing much happens in this chapter (until the end) - I wanted Sam to have another hallucination but to tell it from Dean's point of view, so I hope that was slightly interesting!  
> Is Sam getting better? What's happened to him at the end?


	5. Chapter 5

Before throwing his shoes on and stepping out into the mid-autumn cold, Dean checked the cabin once more. It was hard to lose someone in a cabin this small, but he wanted to make sure that the twisted feeling in his gut that something was really wrong wasn’t just an overreaction. Every room was empty.

Once outside, his eyes scanned the trees that circled the cabin. Their leaves whispered in the night breeze and the groan of their wood seemed to surround him. Dean narrowed his stare, struggling to see in the 3 AM darkness. Every hair on his body bristled in the cold and the bitter wind was painful as it rushed past his ears.

“Sam?” His voice was loud and clear and steady. He repeated the name twice more but was talking only to trees. He stood outside a moment longer, despite the cold, trying to separate the practical part of his brain from the part that was growing increasingly more anxious. He turned on his heel and strode back inside. He headed straight for the bedroom, to his phone. Finding Sam’s number in a flash, he placed the phone to his ear as he listened intently, willing Sam to pick up, wherever the hell he was.

But as he listened, he heard a sound. But it wasn’t coming from his phone. He moved around the bedroom, trying to figure out where it was coming from. When he was unable to, he moved into the kitchen. The sound was louder now, and Dean could see why.

On the kitchen table lay Sam’s ringing phone. Dean moved towards it, staring. His own name was flashing up on the screen as the sound continued. He moved his own phone away from his ear and hung up the call. The screen went dark.

A fresh wave of panic made its way through his body. Where the hell would Sam have gone without his phone? That was an unspoken rule they had; they needed to be able to get in touch with each other at any given time – for safety. Something _was_ wrong.

Dean moved quickly. He pulled on his jacket that was hanging up on the door, noticing Sam’s was still there too. The kid would be freezing, Dean thought, so he took it off its hook and draped it over his arm. He grabbed Sam’s phone too and his keys were lying on the kitchen counter beside the fridge.

He stopped with one foot out the door again and glanced once more around the room for anything else he might need. His eyes rested on Sam’s laptop lying closed on the couch. He darted back across the room to pick it up, tucking it under his arm; as much as Dean didn’t want to believe it, the police scanner might come in useful. But it wouldn’t be that bad – he’d find Sam walking down the road, or in some bar downtown.

The car engine was roaring into life before he’d even sat down. He’d put Sam’s laptop on the seat next to him while his coat and phone lay on the back seat. He opened the laptop next to him and opened the police radio scanner Sam had installed. Dean prayed he’d only hear about random robberies or people who’d had one too many causing trouble. He pushed down on the accelerator and started down the winding road from the cabin into town.

As he drove through the almost pitch-black, he kept an eye out for any sign of Sam and kept an ear out for the police radio which, at the moment, was picking up nothing but static. He tried to go slowly so as not to miss anything along the way, but his anxiety was pushing him on, willing him to go faster. The headlights illuminated the road ahead with a brilliant beam, but other than that, the dark night seemed to consume the world around him. His mind raced as he pushed on along the long stretch of tarmac that led into the town of Whitefish, Montana.

* * *

Dean felt inclined to punch something.

He’d driven around the centre of town painfully slowly about four times, each time his eyes were keenly scanning the streets for any sign of Sam.

He stopped at every bar or restaurant he saw and went inside to ask if they’d seen a tall, long-haired guy, perhaps without a jacket? He got a lot of concerned or sometimes pitiful looks but not a lot of answers.

He’d cruised the car along every back alley, every side road he could see, all the while keeping an ear listening to the police radio scanner. Nothing. He’d heard about some random noise complaint that was called in by some random dude but nothing else.

So now, he had pulled into a side street behind a bar, the car engine still purring but at a stand-still. Dean’s head was moving fast, trying to pick out the best course of action to take. He wasn’t about to give up for the night – hell, no. But what could he do? He had already called Bobby, who had told him to relax and that he'd make a few calls to any hunters he knows in the nearby area to tell them to keep a look out for Sam. But Sam couldn't have gotten far - he was probably still in town. Unless he'd stolen a car. Dean swallowed at the notion of Sam driving with Satan sitting shotgun. The way Sam had been hallucinating recently, that could be seriously dangerous.

Dean brought himself out of those thoughts, tried to shake them off as though they were sitting on his shoulders. He considered going to the police station next. His stomach twisted at the thought that it had come to that, but it had been hours and who knew what kind of trouble Sam could be in. His hand drifted to the steering wheel, ready to pull out onto the main road when a sound on the police scanner caught his attention.

He heard a woman’s voice coming through, professional and steady. Only parts were audible, interrupted by static.

“We got a John Doe, white, late 20s…We need an ambulance dispatch to East 3rd street…repeat immed-”

The voice was cut off by more static, but Dean had heard enough. His foot was already on the pedal. He felt his stomach start to twist again and a lump start to rise in his throat. He tried to ignore it, push it down, calm his racing mind.

It didn’t have to be Sam, right?

It could be anyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this wasn't very exciting! More will happen in the next chapter, but I hope this was still enjoyable!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THIS STORY DOES HAVE MILD ELEMENTS OF SELF-HARM  
> ALSO MILD DESCRIPTIONS OF GORE
> 
> This takes place sometime in early season 7. Sam is using the scar on his left hand to keep his hallucinations at bay.  
> But the visions seem to be getting stronger and harder to get rid of.  
> How can Sam keep them away?

Speed limits were broken, and a few red lights were run as Dean raced through the streets of Whitefish, Montana. Keen green eyes scanned the roads, reading every sign, looking for East 3rd, while his ears listened carefully for the piercing wailing of sirens.

There were two alternatives right now.

Either the ambulance wasn’t for Sam – in which case, he was still in the wind.

Or, it was him – in which case, he needed medical attention.

Either way, this was bad. But, no, Dean couldn’t afford to think about that right now. Focus on the matter at hand, that’s what he needed to do. He would cross whatever bridge he needed to when it came.

The town was eerily deserted at this time of night, or morning, depending on how you look at it. He took sharp corners, eyes flitting around for a street sign.

East 5th, East 4th…

Rounding the corner onto East 3rd, his heart thumped in his ears just a little bit faster. He was already uttering curses himself for not being more alert, not being quicker. The ambulance could have already been and gone, considering the emergency services _probably_ would’ve had a better navigation of the town than he did.

But there was nothing he could do about that now.

Suddenly, something caught the attention of his frantic eyes. Lights were up ahead. Flashing lights of blue and red. The shape of two large vehicles too.

His foot pressed down harder on the accelerator pedal. When he got close enough, he leapt out of the car before it had even come to a stand-still.

He approached with slightly shaky legs, eyes locked on the scene ahead of him. Icy rain had started, quickly falling as dark spots on his jacket. An ambulance and police car were stationary outside a run-down café that looked like it had been deserted for years. The ambulance had its back doors open, and the ramp lowered, like it was waiting with open arms.

Passers-by had stopped to observe the scene. A tall woman and a bald man were talking to police officers, who Dean assumed were the ones who had called for the ambulance. His unsteady stride walked him closer and closer. He caught sight of a group of paramedics huddled together. Then, he felt his heart hit the floor of his stomach with a thud.

Sam was pale. Deathly pale.

Even in the dim light, Dean could tell his skin was grey like the ground that he lay on. Sam’s eyes were closed, not a fraction of movement behind their lids. His hands, arms, legs were as limp as a wilted flower. His face expressionless. For a fleeting moment, Dean was taken back to when his brother was little, sleeping in the backseat of the Impala as it cruised down some barren back road. The only light on his face had been the moon. He had looked so young. His eyes twitched every now and again, making Dean smile. He hoped it was a good dream. Sam almost looked that young again now.

That was when Dean saw the blood.

A dark red pool, oozing out from Sam’s arms, stomach, chest, everywhere. The sleeves of his flannel shirt looked almost black with it and Dean felt his stomach twist further as he noticed more seeping from Sam’s collarbones. Most of his unmoving body was wet with it.

 _Too much, too much, too much,_ Dean heard in his head. _He’s lost too much…_

He shook his head, sobered himself, brought his head out of those dark thoughts. The paramedics crowded around Sam, preparing to lift him onto a gurney. They looked like vultures descending on a carcass. Dean felt something tug in his chest, pulling him closer to his brother. He strode over, hoping his knees wouldn’t give way beneath him.

A police officer stood in his way, but once Dean absent-mindedly barked something at him about being his brother, he let Dean through, though not without following closely behind him. 

Sam only looked worse as he got closer.

The paramedics were lifting him now and Dean could make out fresh blood dripping from Sam’s arms as they placed him on the gurney. Worry continued to rise in his throat, like a hand crawling up his gullet.

They wheeled Sam over to the ambulance doors as Dean got closer to his brother. He had almost reached him when his stride was broken by a hand on his chest that he realised when he looked belonged to another paramedic, female and short. Dean was speaking before she could open her mouth.

“He’s my brother. I-I don’t know what happened, but I need to be with him.” His voice was frantic and wavering.

“Your brother needs serious medical attention, sir, but you can ride with him in the ambulance if you’re willing to stay back and let us do our job.” Her tone was nothing but professional, business-like.

Grateful that she wasn’t going to fight him on this, Dean blurted out a “Yes, yes, I will.”

He wasn’t entirely sure how true that would turn out to be, but he knew he would do his best. As much as he wanted to shove the medics out the way and bring Sam back to the cabin to patch his little brother up, like he always had, he knew that wasn’t what Sam needed right now.

The paramedic placed a firm hand on his arm and guided him over to the ambulance on which Sam had been fully loaded.

Dean climbed the ramp, his gaze never leaving his brother, who looked even paler under the fluorescent lights of the ambulance’s interior.

More hands touched his shoulders and arms (Dean didn’t take any notice of who they belonged to) and directed him to a leather-covered seat next to Sam’s bed. He could almost feel his wobbly legs breathe a sigh of relief as he sat down.

Instinctively, he reached out to touch Sam, to cup his face the way he always did when his little brother was hurt, but a paramedic rushed by him and he remembered what he had said about letting them do their job. His jaw clenched as he held himself back and made sure he wasn’t getting in the way.

He made an effort to stop his knee from bouncing up and down in worried restlessness.

Now that he was up close, Dean started examining the wounds on Sam’s body. He wanted to shut his eyes at the sight of how deep the gashes were, but something kept them open, wanting to evaluate the extent of the damage, despite his stomach twisting this way and that. Some wounds didn’t look too bad – and by that, Dean means there was _slightly_ less blood trickling down from them. Others made that voice in Dean’s head resurface: _Too much, it’s too much blood._ What the hell had happened to his brother?

The slamming shut of the ambulance doors brought Dean back to reality and frankly, he was grateful.

He made an attempt not to focus on Sam’s sallow, limp body that looked too damn much like the figure that had lain on the table of that shack for a week over 4 years ago now, because Dean hadn’t had it in him to burn it.

Instead, he tried to concentrate on the thrum of the ambulance engine and on the rise and fall of his brother’s chest, however worryingly inconsistent and small the breaths were.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to post this chapter since the last one! Life's been busy, ya know? Anyway, I hope you enjoy this next installment even though nothing much actually happens lol


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: THIS STORY DOES HAVE MILD ELEMENTS OF SELF-HARM  
> ALSO MILD DESCRIPTIONS OF GORE  
> This takes place sometime in early season 7. Sam is using the scar on his left hand to keep his hallucinations at bay.  
> But the visions seem to be getting stronger and harder to get rid of.  
> How can Sam keep them away?

The drive in the ambulance was long, or at least it felt like it.

Too damn long.

Every corner the vehicle rounded, every time Dean felt the wheels underneath them slow down slightly, he prayed that they had finally reached the hospital. Paramedics were shouting words and commands Dean didn’t entirely understand, though he caught a few here and there.

They didn’t sound good.

He tried to fight down the sickness he felt in his stomach but the winding road certainly wasn’t helping.

Finally, Dean felt the engine grind to a complete halt but before that had even happened, the medics were prepared Sam’s bed for transportation off the ambulance. Now that they were here, Dean felt the tightness in his chest ease up ever so slightly.

The doors seemed to fly open by magic and they wasted no time getting Sam out of the vehicle, Dean following close behind. He stayed on their heels as they wheeled Sam through a back entrance of the hospital but was stopped as one of the members of the paramedic team turned to face him.

“Sir, I’m sorry but you can’t go through there. If you could follow me, please.”

Dean barely had a chance to process what they had said before he was being ushered away from the entrance, away from Sam.

“But I need-” he began. His voice came out almost as a growl.

“The best thing you can do for your brother right now is to allow him the attention he needs.”

Dean clenched his fists but he knew it was the truth so he followed behind the paramedic. His steps were quick, eager to get this over with and back to Sam.

He could guess where they were going. He was being carted off to the waiting room where he would have to fill in a hundred forms and answer a hundred questions that he couldn’t give honest answers to.

Sure enough, he found himself in a brightly lit room with a reception desk and rows of seats, some of them occupied by people who either looked worried, tired, impatient or all three. He was sure he would fit right in.

The paramedic put a hand lightly on his shoulder and called out to the receptionist, asking her to give Dean a hand.

The words had barely been spoken before the paramedic was turning around and rushing back out the way they came in, leaving Dean with the red-haired receptionist.

“These forms will need to be filled out, sir, and the doctors will need to know if your brother has any pre-existing medical conditions or allergies.”

Dean mumbled an affirmative response as he took a clipboard with papers and pens attached from her.

Even though this wasn’t the first time Dean had had to answer these kinds of questions and even though he knew that Sam _didn’t_ have any of that stuff, he still racked his brain instinctively. He found himself remembering instances from _years_ ago, like when Dean had put one of those “flexible fabric” band-aids on Sam’s knee after he scraped it in the playground and the next morning, the skin around it had been red and irritated.

However, he doubted that the doctors needed to know about a rash that had occurred _one_ time over 20 years ago.

“I don’t think there’s anything, no,” he finally responded to the receptionist. She nodded before Dean took the clipboard and found a chair to sit on.

He didn’t want to sit. His legs didn’t feel like they were about to buckle underneath him anymore – with the adrenaline, they felt restless and twitchy.

But, people in the waiting area had already been eyeing him as he had come in and he didn’t want to be any more noticeable.

He sat down on a seat that looked more comfortable than it felt and started wading his way through the words printed on the forms.

His brain was having a hard time concentrating on them so he found himself reading them out loud under his breath in an attempt to keep his mind focussed.

Some of the questions he could answer easily. For his and Sam’s name, he could just write Sam and Dean Smith; for house address, he could put Rufus’ cabin; emergency contact, he could put Bobby.

Other questions were trickier – things like insurance, social security number etc. In the end, Dean felt reasonably comfortable leaving most of those ones blank. He doubted many people knew that kind of information off by heart anyway.

He walked back over to the desk and handed the forms over to the receptionist.

“Thank you, I’ll let you know when there’s news, sir.”

Dean pursed his lips and drummed his fingers on the desk in front of him in impatience before walking back over to the chair. He sat down and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and took in his surroundings.

He suddenly became aware of the clinical, sterile smell typical of a hospital waiting room. It made his stomach turn. Too many bad memories attached. He and Sam had ended up in a place like this too many damn times.

But why was he here now? What the hell had happened to Sam? Dean supposed it had something to do with the hallucinations he’d been having, his mind casting back to yesterday when Sam had suffered a bad one. Bad, yes, but Dean had thought it was getting better – after all, he had managed to talk Sam down from it without _too_ much of a struggle and Sam had seemed reasonably satisfied too. So, what had happened tonight?

Lucifer wasn’t real, he was a figment of Sam’s imagination; he couldn’t do anything like the kind of physical damage that Dean had seen on Sam tonight. Perhaps Lucifer had simply coaxed Sam out of the cabin onto the streets, jacket-less and phone-less, and some Whitefish psycho had taken a liking to him and cut him up.

Okay, Dean knew that wasn’t very likely, especially in a small town like this, but it was better than the alternative that had been lurking in a dark corner of Dean’s mind since he first saw the blood seeping out of his brother’s body.

No.

No.

That wasn’t an option. Sure, Sam had cut himself that one time but that was weeks ago. The situation hadn’t got that bad. Dean would know if it were that bad.

So, for now, Dean was content to go with the local-sadist-about-town theory, even just to shut up that voice in his head that was saying otherwise.

There was one thing still bothering Dean though. Something that Sam had said that didn’t make sense to Dean.

Yesterday, as Sam had been steadily coming back to reality from his hallucination, he’d said _“I’m okay, they’re gone.”_

Who the hell were “they”? As far as Dean knew, Sam had just been seeing Lucifer and other random fragments of memories of hell. He hadn’t mentioned any other people. Of course, maybe they were people – maybe Sam had been seeing demons or hellhounds as well. Dean’s skin crawled at the thought.

He would ask Sam when he woke up. _If_ he woke up-

No. Dean interrupted his own thought, unwilling to pay it full attention.

Sam had come out the other side of worse scrapes than this – even if he would be a little scathed. He was stronger than a lot of people gave him credit for – surely these past few weeks, months of reliving literal hell every day were a testament to that.

Dean felt a pang in his chest as he thought of his brother, missing him as though he were gone. Which he wasn’t, Dean reminded himself every couple of minutes as he sat in that waiting room, time marching on excruciatingly slowly. _He wasn’t gone._

* * *

 

There was about a three-minute difference between Dean’s watch and the clock on the wall of the waiting room, as Dean had discovered by frequently glancing at them both. He’d been sat there for what felt like days, with nothing to keep his mind occupied other than his own thoughts which, right now, were scaring him.

Just as he thought he was on the verge of descending into madness, he noticed a tall, dark-skinned woman walking over to him and catching his eye.

He stood up as she approached, trying to dispel the disturbingly eager look he knew he must have been giving her.

“Are you Dean Smith, Sam Smith’s brother?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s me.”

“My name is Doctor Rajput; I’ve been put in charge of your brother’s care for his time at the hospital.”

 _Okay, she’s talking in the present tense. So, he’s alive,_ Dean thought to himself and he felt like a layer of suffocating smoke had been cleared from his mind.

“Your brother’s suffered severe blood loss due to external injuries which has caused his body to go into hypovolemic shock.”

_Uh oh. That doesn’t sound good._

“I’m sorry, hypo-what? What does that mean?”

“It happens when a dangerous amount of blood is lost from the body and requires urgent medical care. We’re currently running tests to gauge how severe it is and from there we can figure out how best to treat him.”

A new pit of worry started to make its home in Dean’s chest.

“But you _can_ treat him?”

“Yes,” the doctor said simply, as though she knew that was all Dean needed to hear. "He was lucky to be brought in before it was too late."

“Okay, okay,” Dean uttered under his breath, trying to take it in. He elected to ignore those last words about it almost being "too late" because what did that matter? _Sammy was going to be okay; they were going to treat him and eventually he’d be back to normal,_ they’d _be back to normal._

Dean wasn’t naïve enough to think it was going to be easy but Sam was going to survive. That’s what mattered.  Now, onto the next important thing…

“When can I see him?”

“Once we’ve finished running the tests, he will be put in a room and you can see him then. We’ll need to wait for the results before we can take his treatment any further.”

Dean nodded, breathing yet another sigh of relief.

“I should warn you,” her tone dropped slightly as she spoke, “your brother may not wake up for some time. Blood loss such as this can involve prolonged unconsciousness.”

Honestly, Dean didn’t care right now. He might not feel that way when he finally sees Sam, but for now he was content just to get a look at his brother.

“I understand, doc. Thanks for everything.”

Doctor Rajput smiled at him kindly. “Not a problem. Someone will be out soon to tell you when you can go in to see Sam.”

As she walked away, Dean felt much more comfortable taking a seat again. He could stand a bit of a wait now that he knew what was on the other end.

Dean knew their lives had a tendency to throw crap their way just as things were starting to look up but he couldn’t help it. For now, Sammy was going to be okay. For now, he could breathe.


End file.
